Hogwarts: This professor is too Muggle.

Chapter 70 Harry Beats Voldemort

Darkness enveloped the room, but the things right in front of him were extremely clear. The cold statue was pressed against the tip of his nose, and the dark wooden cheek was pressed against his pale face. Quirrell's pupils shrank into a small dot, and his heart seemed to be grasped by an invisible hand, and the pumping blood exploded in his brain.

Quirrell stepped back in panic, his boots splashing on the water. His wizard instinct drove him to take out his wand and point it at the statue. He was about to cast a repulsive spell, but the Dark Lord reminded him in time, allowing him to get rid of his fear and regain some sanity.

Magic was brewing at the tip of the wand, and the spell ready to be cast gave Quirrell a sense of security. He looked at the statue and slowly backed away, ready to cast a powerful repulsive spell on the statue at any time.

What the hell is this?

It appears to be a dark magic item.

It will only move when out of sight and does not have much lethality.

As the professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell's knowledge gradually came into play. He vaguely recognized that it was just a worn-out dark magic item. He slowly breathed a sigh of relief, his tense heartstrings relaxed, his calf muscles relaxed from tense, trembled slightly, and his knees became weak.

Just then, a wet and slippery touch came from my legs.

Quirrell subconsciously lowered his head to look, and heard a splashing sound in front of him, and something was approaching again.

"Oops……"

By the time Quirrell reacted, it was too late. He didn't have time to see what was on his leg clearly. He hastily raised his head to face the approaching statue. Unlike the previous static face-to-face interaction, the statue's cold hands had already grabbed his neck. The wooden hands were as strong as a living person, and could even accurately pinch his trachea.

"Ho-"

"Hit with all your strength..."

His neck was strangled again, and the spell was interrupted. The wet and sticky thing had wrapped around his head at some point, and it was a rope made of coarse hemp, and began to tighten and contract.

Breathing, which was already difficult, became even more difficult. No matter how hard I tried to raise and lower my chest, it was no use. My breathing was rapid and shallow, and I felt a burning pain in my lungs. The more difficult it was to breathe, the more I wanted to breathe in oxygen.

"Ho ho..."

The statue and the rope worked together, and only asthma-like sounds could be squeezed out of his trachea. He could not chant any spells at all. Quirrell had to reach out to grab the dark magic item that was strangling his throat. His vision began to go black, and an unprecedented fear enveloped his heart.

The lack of oxygen in the brain dulled the senses, blurred vision, and caused tinnitus. Every shadow in the room seemed to have prying eyes, and there seemed to be hurried footsteps on the water behind him, as if someone was approaching quietly.

Quirrell could only ask for help from that being: "Lord... uh..."

Harry, who was not far away, heard a voice responding with horror. The voice was completely different from Quirrell's, but it came from his body.

"Stupid rubbish..."

The voice was sharp and unpleasant. The moment Harry heard it, a sharp pain ran through the scar on his forehead, as if someone had stabbed a red-hot iron into the scar, stirring wildly in his brain.

Just like that night.

No, I can't lose consciousness here.

Harry held on to the wall and tried to stay awake. He staggered a few times and had to temporarily suspend his plan to attack Quirrell. While enduring the headache, he secretly prayed that the two things could strangle Quirrell to death.

As the strange sound rang out, the wand in Quirrell's hand trembled slightly, paused for a moment, and then a strong shock wave burst out. The statue was knocked backwards, and when it hit the wall, there was a series of sounds of wooden joints breaking. Finally, it fell weakly on the water, splashing water.

Without the statue's help, the rope around his neck was quickly torn loose and thrown far away by the angry Quirrell.

"Cough cough..."

Quirrell coughed violently several times, as if he wanted to vomit out his lungs. It took him several minutes to recover from the spasming trachea and chest cavity, and he could breathe the slightly humid air in the room freely.

The entire struggle was extremely brief, but Quirrell's tear glands and nasal cavity were somewhat out of control, and some of the dirty liquid stuck to the drooping headscarf. Quirrell grasped the headscarf in fear and trepidation:
"Master... I, I didn't expect him to set such a despicable trap, even more despicable than the Albanian dark wizard—"

"Shut up! Go get the Philosopher's Stone!"

"Good host!"

Only then did Quirrell show some relief and resentment for surviving the disaster. He cast several crushing spells to completely dismember the wooden sculpture, but he was still a little unwilling. Unfortunately, there was no trace of the rope around, and the dim environment made it difficult to search carefully.

Quirrell walked forward with a malicious look on his face: "After I get the Philosopher's Stone, I will make sure Levent also tastes the pain of being strangled to death..."

There was no more obstruction afterwards. This must mean that Lewinter's tricks had been exhausted. Quirrell thought so in his heart, but he did not dare to let his guard down. He stepped on the cold water and slowly came to the front of the stone platform.

There was a mirror there, with a golden frame, which looked very luxurious.

The room was extremely dim, but when Quirrell stood before the mirror, he found that light had no effect on the image. He stared at the mirror greedily: "I have seen the Philosopher's Stone, and I am offering it to you, Master...but where is it hidden?"

That cold and hoarse voice appeared again: "Use that boy..."

Harry behind him was startled and had no time to react. He only heard Quirrell snap his fingers, and several magic ropes suddenly appeared out of thin air, wrapped around his hands and feet, and dragged him in front of the mirror.

Quirrell grinned sinisterly. "When I came here, I was still wondering if I'd have a chance to meet you before leaving school, Potter!"

Harry's scar was still painful, but it no longer affected his movements. He stared coldly at the dark wizard in front of him.

"You thought you were hiding well, and you wanted to take advantage of me being in danger to attack me. What a bad boy!" Quirrell's sneer was chilling, and he didn't stutter at all like usual. But thinking of his embarrassed look just now, this face suddenly became less scary, and even a little funny:
"Yes, I didn't find you, but you were too impatient. When you tried to murder me, you also let your guard down. Your footsteps revealed your whereabouts!"

The scene just now flashed through Harry's mind. He was indeed a little anxious at that time, but Quirrell was suffocated to death at that time and certainly did not notice the movement around him.

His eyes turned to the purple turban wrapped around Quirrell's head.

"You are very smart." Quirrell did not answer his doubts, but pressed his shoulders and pushed him towards the mirror. The rope wrapped around his ankles was so tight that it even made him stagger.

There was no parent in the mirror, only himself. He was as frightened as himself, like the reflection in an ordinary mirror, but he suddenly blinked outside the mirror, smiled, took out a bright red stone from his pocket, and then put it back.

"..."

The principal actually put the Philosopher's Stone here!

Harry raced to think of a plan, but before he could come up with a plan, he heard Quirrell scream and hurriedly step back, away from the Mirror of Erised.

"What's wrong again?" An impatient voice came from the headscarf.

"Master... I, in the mirror..."

Quirrell stammered, unable to speak, and turned into that funny Defense Against the Dark Arts professor again.

Harry tilted his head and saw the image in the mirror. The Mirror of Erised could only see one's inner desire when standing directly in front of it, while standing in other directions would only show a normal image. At this moment, a corpse was reflected in the mirror.

According to the corresponding angle of the mirror, Harry and Quirrell raised their heads slightly and saw the real picture.

The hemp rope hanging from the ceiling slowly turned, hanging Quirrell's body. His muscles were swollen, his face was pale, and his eyeballs were bulging out of his sockets. He looked very scary. The body was wearing an opal necklace and there was a scary gash on his neck.

Crimson-black blood seeped out, dripping onto the water's surface. "Pop..."

It turns out that the dripping sound I had been hearing was not dripping water, but dripping blood.

Even Harry, who was watching from the sidelines, felt a chill.

In such a dark and gloomy room, I saw my own horribly dead body in the mirror...

The oppression after entering this strange secret room made Quirrell's spirit always tense. After being freed from suffocation, he did not have much time to breathe. The fear of impending death still remained in his body. At this moment, death appeared before his eyes in a real and concrete way, and Quirrell felt deep fear again.

Hidden within this fear was despair, as if that was his final state...

This thought lingered in his mind, and Quirrell couldn't get rid of it. In anger, he cast several spells, hitting the corpse hanging in the air and making it stagger.

But the pale, swollen body didn't fall. Instead, it turned into dust and quickly dissipated, as if it were some kind of magical artifact. Only the opal necklace on its chest fell into the water, splashing.

"Damn it! Damn it!" Quirrell, who had been fooled, trembled with anger.

"Waste!" The voice sounded again, filled with anger.

"Master, I..."

"Let me talk to him face to face!"

"All right, Master."

Harry watched Quirrell untie his turban and slowly turn around, revealing a hideous and terrifying face. There was no blood in that face, as white as the corpse just now. His eyes were scarlet, and he had no nose, only two long, snake-like nostrils.

"Harry Potter!"

The scarlet glare from those eyes pinned Harry to the spot, his legs unable to move. "Thanks to you, look what I've become. Only a humble ghost left, sharing a body with others..."

……

Shrouded in the Disillusionment Spell, darkness obscures the path, and the black magic candlestick called the Hand of Glory illuminates the vision.

The little witch had tears in her eyes. When Quirrell turned around, she let go of the old headmaster and used her free hand to cover her mouth tightly. The sticky toffee locked her mouth tightly, preventing her from screaming.

Dumbledore stared at the figure in front of the mirror with his eyes wide open. Even if the candlelight was disconnected, it did not affect his ability to see the cold, snake-like face clearly.

Many previous speculations were confirmed at this moment: the incomplete ghost, the existence that was neither dead nor alive.

The speculation about the crown was also settled at this moment.

Now there is only one last thing left. Eleven years ago, the couple's secret keeper leaked the address, and Voldemort attacked Godric's Hollow at night. James and Lily were killed by the Killing Curse one after another, but the mother had prepared to sacrifice herself in advance. She sacrificed her life to leave a talisman for Harry. Even though the Killing Curse was rebounded and destroyed Voldemort's body that night, the amulet still retained amazing magic power.

He did not waste the magic power and sent Harry to the Dursleys' home to nourish him with the power of blood, making the amulet even stronger.

Eleven years later, they will once again witness the power of the amulet.

Melvin was also looking at Voldemort. He had only caught a quick glimpse of him during the Christmas holidays and that night in the Forbidden Forest, but now he had the chance to carefully feel the magic that was emanating from that ghost.

Extremely evil and extremely twisted.

Just through magic, you can get a glimpse of Voldemort's soul.

There is almost no human emotion, pure evil, as if it was born to deprive lives and create pain. If the unicorn's blessing is to eliminate negative effects so that Melvin can fully release black magic, then this evil magic is to completely embrace the negative effects of black magic, which is completely in line with the nature of black magic.

Melvin was still a little confused. Was this magic power innate to Riddle, or was it a byproduct of the split soul?
According to his understanding of Voldemort, although Riddle was gifted and talented during his student days, he was still within the scope of normal wizards. There was no shortage of geniuses in the wizarding world, and there was no shortage of geniuses in Hogwarts. In history, there would always be a few legendary wizards emerging every few hundred years.

The four founders, Merlin the wizard, and in the dark arts there is the despicable Hercule... Dumbledore will also go down in history.

The strength of magic is affected by talent and time, and dueling skills and magical attainments can also be accumulated with age. No wizard can grow as fast as Voldemort.

Holding up the candlestick made of his withered arm, Melvin's eyes swept over the creepy face, over the snake-like nose and eyes.

Are the characteristics of snakes also a gift from some magical animal?

Even the essence of his soul was distorted. What kind of dark magic did Voldemort use to transform himself?
……

"Don't be foolish and surrender to me, otherwise you will end up like your parents, who begged me for mercy before they died..."

"lie!"

"Well, child, your parents were both very brave. Your father preferred death to surrender, but it was a futile struggle. Your mother fought tooth and nail to protect you, but she didn't have to die... Now, give me the Philosopher's Stone in your pocket. Don't let your mother die for you in vain."

"..."

Harry wanted to scratch that face with his wand, but he rationally restrained the urge to rush forward to fight. Firstly, his hands and feet were still tightly tied with ropes, and secondly, he wanted to continue to delay time to see if he could wait for Hermione to bring reinforcements.

Quirrell backed toward him, a grim grin on his ugly face.

Harry backed away cautiously, the rope around his ankles so tight he was afraid he would fall.

Just as Quirrell grabbed his neck, the scar on his forehead began to hurt again, and Quirrell let out a scream even more shrill than his own. He bent over and covered his hand. The place where the hand touched him was red, swollen, and bubbling, as if it were burned by flames.

Harry realized that the ropes that bound him had been untied at some point. He looked at Quirrell wailing in confusion, touched the Philosopher's Stone in his pocket, thought for a moment, and decided that turning around and running away was an option, but it would definitely not be as fast as Quirrell's spell-casting speed.

"Can't run, can't hesitate..."

Last time I hesitated and missed the opportunity.

Harry was furious and rushed forward with his fist raised.

Harry punched the twisted snake face, his eyes went dark, and the scar hurt so much that he almost fainted. But Quirrell was obviously in more pain, and he couldn't hold his wand anymore, covering his head and wailing.

"Ah! ah! ah—"

Quirrell's screams and Voldemort's roars mixed together, like the harmony of Neville and Ralph singing.

Harry gritted his teeth and punched again, and he gasped. The pain was so severe that he couldn't think, nor did he want to think. He just punched Quirrell's bald head and Voldemort's face again and again.

The headache was getting worse and worse, and his vision was blurry. Harry couldn't remember how many times he had thrown a punch. He could no longer hear Quirrell's screams, and his punches seemed to have missed.

His consciousness was becoming increasingly blurred, and he could vaguely hear Hermione calling before he fell unconscious.

(End of this chapter)